


Redshift.

by beautifullyheeled



Series: RedShift. [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Lost Love, M/M, Other, Pre-Slash, References to Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 12:52:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifullyheeled/pseuds/beautifullyheeled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gave everything he could think of. Including himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Redshift.

Sherlock slowly unravels as John is gone. His mood unknown, the weight of it all collapsing like a dying star. It now crushes everything in its wake. Even the music that he can extrude is sombrous. There was once a time when the melodies that skipped across the bridge were bright; but no longer. He even gives pause thinking after tomorrow he might never play again. Except for when he visits.  
  
John’ s birthday, Christmas, the day they met. All times of key importance in Sherlock’s life. All remembered and marked for posterity to never bear the scorn of deletion, especially now. Those just might be the days he’ll be able to go to the quiet grave and play just for him. For now he played a lullabye. His sleeping friend silent within his final bed dressed and tucked as only Sherlock deemed appropriate, even to the point to make sure he had all his honors that had been bestowed properly placed neatly rowed on the midnight suit.  
  
He had never been one to talk about it. Sherlock had known he was a hero in his eyes and marked Remembrance day with whatever John had wanted to do even if if would tint his friends cheeks and make him slightly uncomfortable. He had never seen them, never known what John had done with his original laurels. They were nowhere in their flat to be found. He didn’t believe John would ever had thrown them out purposely, but maybe something had happened in the darker times before they had met.  
  
Sherlock now wore his identification disks beneath his vest. They were now a part of him. A part of John that was tangible for the cold days to come. There was even still a small smudge of dark brownish matter that could only be John’s blood from when he was shot that had permanently embedded in the crease of the metal. He prayed silently it would always be there as a more physical reminder of his physician. John had the matched set newly minted with another set resting in his breast pocket, containing all of Sherlock’s information as well.  
  
His eyes alighted to John’s small callused hands. Itching to touch them, yet not being able to touch the falsely cold flesh. It was all a lie, this loss, it must be so. This could not be his John’s time to rest. They had so much left to accomplish, so much left to live for. The newness of themselves as binaries no longer orbiting but collapsing in upon one another. Too soon. This was too soon. He was not supposed to go into the dark without him.  
  
They were supposed to have collided and wrent and collapsed gloriously together on one dark night years from now swallowing everything in their path before they became singular. Not John rushing headlong into the destruction, tilting when he should have swerved away from the path that had been laid before them. They had known Moriarty had set everything in motion. It was Sherlock’s sacrifice that had been demanded and he would have given if John hadn’t been clever enough to offer his life in his stead.  
  
Moriarty suicided right after John’s fall in plain view from the roof and fell right after he shot himself throwing his matter to the wind. On him a note, explaining the game including what would become all the evidence needed to clear Sherlock as this had been the ending Moriarty had planned all along. He truly had burnt the heart out of Sherlock's existence in a massive supernova leaving only pain and grief in it’s trajectory; the course straight and true. He was certain if he performed the proper tests there would indeed be emptiness where the physical representation had abided. Only the echo of a once beating heart replaying happier times to remind his body to keep on living. The shadow now taking permanence in a dark knot beneath his ribs driving him forward relentlessly until his work could be finished and he could once again join John where he had lead.  
  
His courage forged a path into the veil of unknown to save the first and only love of his life. Still new and fragile, so delicate. Precious. Now formed into carbon and iridium brought to life in his passing. This new heart would not be broken. Would not feel mercy for those that stood in his course. These were the ones meant to pay for the death of a good man. Pay they would, so very dearly.  
  
But not this day.  
  
Today he mourned, tomorrow buried.  
  
Yet the third day would break cold and terrible, only vengeance to fuel his veins.  
  
Tonight though, tonight was theirs. The windows cracked allowing small flurries into their parlor dancing in the December air. John was home for the final time and Sherlock would stand watch over his faithful soldier, friend, and companion for this last time before committing him to the earth in their families resting place.  
  
``Your prayers, good saints, if I should fall; and for mercy, O Lord, on you I call...''* Sherlock whispered as he dared to kiss John’s brow remembering a line from some poem he had found since meeting him. It had struck him as John’s answer had that first night. His will to live tremendous yet he chose to fall so that Sherlock may rise and live yet again. A final sacrifice from the truest man he had ever met. Soon, with luck, Sherlock would join him his vengeance complete. Then his own sacrifice could be placed beside; his right to John’s left.  
  
He had miles to go yet still, but this gave him the deepest peace and allowed him to move forward. To know, one day, they would be twinned together yet again. **  
**

**Author's Note:**

> * Quoted from The Irish Soldier by John Banim.
> 
> I know John is not Irish, as does Sherlock. This line always stuck with him though.


End file.
